Myrtle Beach: ~ The sound of the waves is a hushed, lullaby of secrets.

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Sonnet to Sleep O soft embalmer of the still midnight,. Ode to Psyche O Goddess! On Fame Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy. On Fame How fever'd is the man, who cannot look. If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,. Two or three posies Two or three posies. Ode to a Nightingale My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains.

Ode on a Grecian Urn Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,. Ode on Melancholy No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist. Ode on Indolence One morn before me were three figures seen,. Shed no tear — O shed no tear Shed no tear — O, shed no tear! Conrad So, I am safe emerged from these broils! Good, if I may guess. And, sister, slurring o'er. I pr'ythee, Conrad, do not overact. Trust me for once. That you may be assured. I saw my moment. But what is this to me. Yes, sister, but it does regard you greatly,. I would enquire somewhat of him:.

At one pernicious charge of the enemy,. No, nor great, nor mighty;. You'll not be perjured! Go to Albert then,. Can it be, brother? For a golden crown. Let not this slave— this villain—. Fair on your Graces fall this early morrow!

Such salutation argues a glad heart. O would to heaven your poor servant. The Duke is out of temper; if he knows. Aye, Conrad, it will pluck out all grey hairs;. My lord, I was a vassal to your frown,. What need of this? Enough, if you will be. He has not yet return'd, my gracious liege. No tidings of my friendly Arab? More thanks, good Conrad; for, except my son's,. You have my secret; let it not be breath'd. Where shall I find a messenger? O that the earth were empty, as when Cain. Well, well, I know what ugly jeopardy. Still very sick, my lord; but now I went,.

Go no further; not a step more. Was ever such a night? O, my poor boy! Grievously are we tantaliz'd, one and all;. Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,. To Autumn Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,. The Fall of Hyperion: The day id gone, and all its sweets are gone The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone! I cry your mercy — pity — love!

These then he caught up quivering with delight, Yet fearful lest it all might be a dream, And though aweary with the watchful night, And sleepless nights of longing, still did deem He could not sleep; but yet the first sun-beam That smote the fane across the heaving deep Shone on him laid in calm untroubled sleep. But little ere the noontide did he rise, And why he felt so happy scarce could tell Until the gleaming apples met his eyes. But yet — what change is this that holds the maid? Does she indeed see in his glittering eye More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, Some happy hope of help and victory?

But he — what look of mastery was this He cast on her? Why was his face so flushed with happiness? Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, And even as she casts adown her eyes Redden to note his eager glance of praise, And wish that she were clad in other guise? Why does she tremble as the time grows near, And weak defeat and woeful victory fear? But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew And past the maid rolled on along the sand; Then trembling she her feet together drew And in her heart a strong desire there grew To have the toy; some god she thought had given That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven.

Then from the course with eager steps she ran, And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. But when she turned again, the great-limbed man, Now well ahead she failed not to behold, And mindful of her glory waxing cold, Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit.

But as he set his mighty hand on it White fingers underneath his own were laid, And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit, Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, But she ran on awhile, then as afraid Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay, Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. Short was the way unto such winged feet, Quickly she gained upon him till at last He turned about her eager eyes to meet And from his hand the third fair apple cast. She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, That in her hand it lay ere it was still.

Nor did she rest, but turned about to win Once more, an unblest woeful victory — And yet — and yet — why does her breath begin To fail her, and her feet drag heavily?

Why fails she now to see if far or nigh The goal is? Why do these tremors run through every limb? Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss: Made happy that the foe the prize hath won. She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. Upon the brazen altar break the sword, And scatter incense to appease the ghosts Of those who died here by their own award.

Since she in token of her service new Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow, Her maiden zone, her arrows, and her bow. NOW on the second day that these did meet March was a-dying through soft days and sweet, Too hopeful for the wild days yet to be; But in the hall that ancient company, Not lacking younger folk that day at least, Softened by spring were gathered at the feast, And as the time drew on, throughout the hall A horn was sounded, giving note to all That they at last the looked-for tale should hear.

Like the wise ants a kingless, happy folk We long have been, not galled by any yoke, But the white leaguer of the winter tide Whereby all men at home are bound to bide. But pardon, sirs; the time goes swiftly by, Hearken a tale of conquering destiny. IT was foretold to a great king, that he who should reign after him should be low-born and poor; which thing came to pass in the end, for all that the king could do? A KING there was in days of old Who ruled wide lands, nor lacked for gold, Nor honour, nor much longed-for praise, And his days were called happy days, So peaceable his kingdoms were, While others wrapt in war and fear Fell ever unto worse and worse.

Therefore his city was the nurse Of all that men then had of lore, And none were driven from his door That seemed well-skilled in anything; So of the sages was he king; And from this learned man and that, Little by little, lore he gat, And many a lordless, troubled land Fell scarce loth to his dreaded hand. Midst this it chanced that, on a day, Clad in his glittering gold array, He held a royal festival; And nigh him in his glorious hall Beheld his sages most and least, Sitting much honoured at the feast. Or dost thou chronicle old wars? Or canst thou make the shattered bone Grow whole, and dying men live on Till years like thine at last are won?

And now for all the years I gave, To know all things that man can learn, A few months learned life I earn, Nor feel much liker to a god Than when beside my sheep I trod Upon the thymy, wind-swept down. Yet am I come unto thy town To tell thee somewhat that I learned As on the stars I gazed, and yearned To cast this weary body off, With all its chains of mock and scoff And creeping death — for as I read The sure decrees with joy and dread, Somewhat I saw writ down of thee, And who shall have the sovereignty When thou art gone.

Fear not because this thing I know, For to my grey tower back I go High raised above the heathy hills Where the great erne the swift hare kills, Or stoops upon the new-yeaned lamb; There almost as a god I am Unto few folk, who hear thy name Indeed, but know nought of thy fame, Nay, scarce if thou be man or beast. Back to the hall, too, the King went, With eyes upon the pavement bent In pensive thought, delighting not In riches and his kingly lot; But thinking how his days began, And of the lonely souls of man.

And they being wed for nigh a year, And she now growing great with child, It happed unto the forest wild This king with many folk must ride At ending of the summer-tide; There boar and hart they brought to bay, And had right noble prize that day; But when the noon was now long past,, And the thick woods grew overcast, They roused the mightiest hart of all. And over rough and smooth he rode, Nor yet for anything abode, Till dark night swallowing up the day With blindness his swift course must stay.

Nor was there with him any one, So far his fair steed had outrun The best of all his hunting-folk. So, leading on his wearied beast, Blindly he crept from tree to tree, Till slowly grew that light to be The thing he looked for, and he found A hut on a cleared space of ground, From whose half-opened door there streamed The light that erst far off had gleamed. Withal he muttered, for his sake, Unto Our Lady some rude prayer, And turned about and left him there.

So when the rye-bread, nowise fine, The king had munched, and with green wine Had quenched his thirst, his horse he tied Unto a post, and there beside He fell asleep upon the brake. Then he sat upright, Bewildered, gazing through the night, Until his weary eyes, grown dim, Showed not the starlit tree-trunks slim Against the black wood, grey and plain; And into sleep he sank again, And woke not soon: Again the King woke at that word And sat up, panting and afeard, And staring out into the night, Where yet the woods thought not of light; And fain he was to cast off sleep, Such visions from his eyes to keep.

So in the door the King did wait To watch the man, who had no heed Of this or that, so sore did bleed The new-made wound within his heart. But as the King gazed, for his part He did but see his threatened foe, And ever hard his heart did grow With deadly hate and wilfulness: On straw the poor dead woman lay; The door alone let in the day, Showing the trodden earthen floor, A board on trestles weak and poor, Three stumps of tree for stool or chair, A half-glazed pipkin, nothing fair, A bowl of porridge by the wife Untouched by lips that lacked for life, A platter and a bowl of wood; And in the further corner stood A bow cut from the wych-elm tree, A holly club, and arrows three Ill pointed, heavy, spliced with thread.

But as he gazed unsoftened there, With hate begot of scorn and care, Loudly he heard a great horn blow, And his own hunting call did know, And soon began the shouts to hear Of his own people drawing near. Then turned the carle his doleful face, And slowly rising in his place, Drew thwart his eyes his fingers strong, And on that gay-dressed glittering throng Gazed stupidly, as still he heard The name of King; but said no word. This luckless woodman, whom ye see, Gave me good harbour through the night And such poor victual as he might; Therefore shall he have more than gold For his reward; since dead and cold His helpmate lies who last night died.

See now the youngling by her side; Him will I take and rear him so That he shall no more lie alow In straw, or from the beech-tree dine. But rather use white linen fine And silver plate; and with the sword Shall learn to serve some King or Lord. And now, indeed, forth must he go If unto manhood he should grow, And lonely I must wander forth, To whom east, west, and south, and north Are all alike: Then coming out, the door he shut Behind him, and adown a glade, Towards a rude hermitage he made To fetch the priest unto his need, To bury her and say her bede — So when all things that he might do Were done aright, heavy with woe, He left the woodland hut behind To take such chance as he might find In other lands, forgetting all That in that forest did befall.

For some nurse now he needs must have This tender life of his to save; And doubtless by the stream there is Some house where he may dwell in bliss, Till he grow old enough to learn How gold and glory he may earn; And grow, perchance, to be a lord. With downcast eyes he spoke that word; But forth they galloped speedily, And he drew rein and stood to see Their green coats lessening as they went. I counsel thee to let him go Since sure to nought thy will shall grow.

Now somewhat, soothly at the sight Did the king doubt if he outright Had rid him of his feeble foe, But frowning did he turn to go Unto his home, nor knew indeed How better he might help his need; And as unto his house he rode Full little care for all he showed, Still bidding Samuel the squire Unto his bridle-hand ride nigher, To whom he talked of careless things, As unto such will talk great kings.

But when unto his palace gate He came at last, thereby did wait The chamberlain with eager eyes Above his lips grown grave with lies, In haste to tell him that the queen, While in the wild-wood he had been, Had borne a daughter unto him Strong, fair of face, and straight of limb.

So well at ease and glad thereat His troubled dream he nigh forgat, His troubled waking, and the ride Unto the fateful river-side; Or thought of all as little things Unmeet to trouble souls of kings. So passed the days, so passed the years In such-like hopes, and such-like fears, And such-like deeds in field and hall As unto royal men befall, And fourteen years have passed away Since on the huddled brake he lay And dreamed that dream, remembered now Once and again, when slow and slow The minutes of some sleepless night Crawl toward the dawning of the light.

Remembered not on this sweet morn When to the ringing of the horn, Jingle of bits and mingled shout Toward that same stream he rideth out To see his grey-winged falcons fly. There smiling stayed the joyous king, And since the autumn noon was hot Thought good anigh that pleasant spot To dine that day, and therewith sent To tell the miller his intent: To whom the miller drew anigh Among the courtiers, bringing there Such as he could of country fare, Green yellowing plums from off his wall, Wasp-bitten pears, the first to fall From off the wavering spire-like tree, Junkets, and cream and fresh honey.

Smiling the king regarded him, For he was round-paunched, short of limb, Red-faced, with long, lank flaxen hair; But with him was a boy, right fair, Grey-eyed, and yellow-haired, most like Unto some Michael who doth strike The dragon on a minster wall, So sweet-eyed was he, and withal So fearless of all things he seemed.

William Morris

But as his eyes he lifted up From off his jewelled golden cup, Once more the miller drew anigh, By whom his wife went timidly Bearing some burden in her hand; So when before him she did stand And he beheld her worn and old, And black-haired, then that hair of gold, Grey eyes, firm lips, and round cleft chin, Brought stronger memory of his sin. So oft have I rejoiced to sit Beside the fire and watch him play.

And now, behold him! Which I have kept. Therewith she drew A cloth away; but the King knew, Long ere she moved, what he should see, Nor looked, but seeming carelessly Leaned on the board and hid his eyes. Since Samuel his cloak had cast About it, and therewith had past Throughout the forest on that day, And not till all were well away Had drawn it off before the King. But changed and downcast at the thing He left the lovely autumn place, Still haunted by the new-found face Of his old foe, and back he rode Unto his ancient rich abode, Forcing but dismal merriment As midst his smiling lords he went; Who yet failed not to note his mood, So changed: The morrow come, the King did sit Alone, to talk with Samuel, Who yet lived, gathering wage for hell.

And will not he outlive this day Whom the deep water could not slay, Ere yet his lips had tasted food? The boy gazed at him earnestly, With beating heart, as he drew nigh. And when at last he drew his rein Beside him, thought that not in vain His dream might be.

Endymion (Keats) - Wikisource, the free online library

And all his life that was to be. Sir, please you to look up and down The weedy reaches of our stream, And note the bubbles of the bream, And see the great chub take the fly, And watch the long pike basking lie Outside the shadow of the weed. Withal there come unto our need Woodcock and snipe when swallows go; And now the water-hen flies low With feet that well nigh touch the reeds, And plovers cry about the meads, And the stares chatter; certes, sir, It is a fair place all the year.

Take heart, for to a better place Thou goest now. Yet shall thy finding not be vain, And thou mayst bless it; for behold This bag wherein is store of gold; Take it and let thy hinds go play, And grind no corn for many a day, For it would buy thy mill and thee. They crossed the stream and by its brim Both mounted the great warhorse grey, And without word they rode away. Nor did the harsh voice rouse again The thought of mockery or of pain, For other thoughts held Samuel.

Therewith he groaned; yet saying thus His case seemed hard and piteous, When he remembered how of old Another tale he might have told. So as each thought his own thoughts still, The horse began to breast the hill, And still they went on higher ground, Until as Michael turned him round He saw the sunny country-side Spread out before him far and wide, Golden amidst its waning green, Joyous with varied life unseen.

Meanwhile from side to side of them The trees began their way to hem, As still he gazed from tree to tree, And when he turned back presently He saw before him like a wall Uncounted tree trunks dim and tall. Not there as yet had Michael been, Nor had he left the meadows green Dotted about with spreading trees, And fresh with sun and rain and breeze, For those mirk woods, and still his eyes Gazed round about for mysteries.

For the firs ended on the brow Of a rough gravelly hill, and there Lay a small valley nowise fair Beneath them, clear at first of all But brake, till amid rushes tall Down in the bottom alders grew Crabbed and rough; and winding through The clayey mounds a brook there was Oozy and foul, half choked with grass. The time is short for thee to waste. Come nigh and draw them tighter, lad. But, ere his fingers clutched it well, Far off he seemed to hear a bell, And trembling knelt upright again, And listening, listened not in vain, For clear he heard a tinkling sound.

Then to his horse from off the ground He leapt, nor reasoned with his dread, But thought the angel of the dead Was drawing nigh the slayer to slay, Ere scarce the soul had passed away. One dreadful moment yet he heard That bell, then like a madman spurred His noble horse; that maddened too, The close-set fir-wood galloped through, Not stayed by any stock or stone, Until the furious race being done, Anigh the bridge he fell down dead; And Samuel, mazed with guilt and dread, Wandered afoot throughout the night, But came, at dawning of the light, Half-dead unto the palace gate.

Therewith he rose and gat away, But brooding on it through that day, Thought that all things went not so ill As first he deemed, and that he still Might leave his old line flourishing. Therewith both gold and many a thing Unto old Samuel he gave, But thereby failed his life to save; Who, not so old in years as sin, Died ere the winter, and within The minster choir was laid asleep, With carven saints his head to keep.

And so the days and years went by, And still in great felicity The King dwelt, wanting only this — A son wherewith to share his bliss, And reign when he was dead and gone. So in short time it came to pass Again the King well wedded was, And hoped once more to have a son. And when this fair dame he had won, A year in peace he dwelt with her, Until the time was drawing near When first his eyes beheld that foe He deemed was dead these years ago.

Now at that time, as custom was, His daughter was about to pass Unto a distant house of his, Some king had built for worldly bliss In ancient days: Long years agone these folk were passed, Their crimes forgotten, or else cast Into the glowing crucible Of time, that tempers all things well, That maketh pleasure out of pain, And out of ruin golden gain; Nathless, unshaken still, there stood The towers and ramparts red as blood; Wherein their lives had passed away; And still the lovely gardens lay About them, changed, but smiling still, As in past time, on good or ill.

Thither the Princess Cecily Must go awhile in peace to be; For now, midst care, and doubt, and toil, Proud words drawn back, and half-healed broil, The King had found one meet to wed His daughter, of great godlihead, Wealth, and unbroken royalty. Farewell — and all things thou mayst wish I pray God grant thee.

Ever the new sun daily brought Fresh joy of life to her bedside, The world before her open wide Was spread, a place for joy and bliss. Her lips had trembled with no kiss, Wherewith love slayeth fear and shame; Her grey eyes conscious of no blame, Beheld unmoved the eyes of men; Her hearing grew no dimmer when Some unused footstep she might hear; And unto no man was she dear, But as some goddess might have been When Greek men worshipped many a queen. The moon no melancholy brought, The dawn no vain, remorseful thought.

But scarce was she upon the road Ere news unto the King was brought That Peter, the old abbot, sought To see him, having newly come From the wild place that was his home Across the forest; so the King Bade him to enter, well willing To hear what he might have to say; Who, entering the hall straightway, Had with him an old, reverend man, The Sub-prior, father Adrian, And five monks more, and therewithal Ten of his folk, stout men and tall, Who bore armed staves and coats of fence.

Lord Abbot, come they from the wood? Dwell many more such thereabout? Fain were I such should swell the shout When I am armed, and rank meets rank. But when for sure this thing he knew Pale to the very lips he grew. That soon his father would be dead, And that of all things he would have His rights, that he his soul might save.

I made no tarrying at that word, But took between mine hands the Lord, And bade the boy bear forth the bell For though few folk there were to tell. Who passed that way, nathless, I trow The beasts were glad that news to know. Oh my son, Fear not that aught can stay This One.

Withal the King, as one listening, With his thin, anxious face and pale, Sat leaning forward through this tale, Scarce noting here and there a word. And as he now beheld its sheen, The twining stem of gold and green, The white scroll with the letters black — Strike! He hardened yet his heart once more, And grown unhappy as before, When last he had that face in sight, Brought now the third time to the light, Once more grew treacherous, fierce, and fell.

By all most happy to be brought Unto such hopeful fair estate. But Michael going, presently Met Hugh, a big man rough and black, And who of nought but words had lack, With him he mounted, and set forth And daylong rode on from the north. But Michael to his scoff said nought, But upon high things set his thought As his departing hooves he heard.

The early fires sent up their smoke That seemed to him to tell of folk New wakened unto great delight: For he upon that morning bright, So joyous felt, so free from pain, He seemed as he were born again Into some new immortal state That knew no envy, fear, or hate. Slices of white cheese, specked with green, And greenstriped onions and ryebread, And summer apples faintly red, Even beneath the crimson skin; And yellow grapes, well ripe and thin, Plucked from the cottage gable-end. And certes Michael felt their friend Hearing their voices, nor forgot His boyhood and the pleasant spot Beside the well-remembered stream; And friendly did this water seem As through its white-flowered weeds it ran Bearing good things to beast and man.

Surely he thought to wake from it, And once more by the waggon sit, Blinking upon the sunny mill. But not for either good or ill Shall he see one of all those days; On through the quivering noontide haze He rode, and now on either hand Heavy with fruit the trees did stand; Nor had he ridden long, ere he The red towers of the house could see Grey on the wind-beat southern side: And soon the gates thrown open wide He saw, the long-fixed drawbridge down, The moat, with lilies overgrown, Midst which the gold-scaled fishes lay: Such peace was there for many a day. And nigh him a great golden carp Lay stiff with all his troubles done, Drawn from the moat ere yet the sun Was high, and nigh him was his bane, An angling rod of Indian cane.

Thou laughest — hast thou never heard Of this same valorous Red Beard, And how he died? But soon made drowsy with his ride, And the warm hazy autumn-tide, And many a musical sweet sound, He cast him down upon the ground, And watched the glittering water leap, Still singing low, nor thought to sleep. Meanwhile unto that garden green Had come the Princess, and with her A maiden that she held right dear, Who knew the inmost of her mind.

Now those twain, as the scented wind Played with their raiment or their hair, Had late been running here and there, Chasing each other merrily, As maids do, thinking no one by; But now, well wearied therewithal, Had let their gathered garments fall About their feet, and slowly went: And through the leaves a murmur sent, As of two happy doves that sing The soft returning of the spring. Now of these twain the Princess spoke The less, but into laughter broke Not seldom, and would redden oft, As on her lips her fingers soft She laid, as still the other maid, Half grave, half smiling, follies said.

Come, and behold him, have no fear! The great bell would not wake him now, Right in his ears. So over the fair, pink-edged flower, Softly she stepped; but when she came Anigh the sleeper, lovely shame Cast a soft mist before her eyes Full filled of many fantasies. But when she saw him lying there She smiled to see her mate so fair; And in her heart did Love begin To tell his tale, nor thought she sin To gaze on him that was her own, Not doubting he was come alone To woo her, whom midst arms and gold She deemed she should at first behold; And with that thought love grew again Until departing was a pain, Though fear grew with that growing love; And with her lingering footsteps strove As from the place she turned to go, Sighing and murmuring words full low.

The poems of John Keats

With that they stepped A pace or two from where he slept, And then she read,. If of himself he waketh, then Hide him until I come again, When thou hast told him of the snare — If thou betrayest me beware! For death shall be the least of all The ills that on thine head shall fall — What say I, thou art dear to me, And doubly dear now shalt thou be, Thou shalt have power and majesty, And be more queen in all than I— Few words are best, be wise, be wise!

Withal she turned about her eyes Once more, and swiftly as a man Betwixt the garden trees she ran, Until, her own bower reached at last, She made good haste, and quickly passed Unto her secret treasury. O well-beloved, Know that at this time we are moved To wed our daughter, so we send Him who bears this, our perfect friend, To be her bridegroom; so do thou Ask nought of him, since well we know His race and great nobility, And how he is most fit to be Our son; therefore snake no delay, But wed the twain upon the day Thou readest this: She cast the pen down hastily At that last letter, for she heard How even now the people stirred Within the hall: Then swiftly down the stairs she ran And reached the garden; but her fears Brought shouts and thunder to her ears, That were but lazy words of men Full-fed, far off; nay, even when Her limbs caught up her flying gown The noise seemed loud enough to drown The twitter of the autumn birds, And her own muttered breathless words That to her heart seemed loud indeed.

Yet therewithal she made good speed And reached the fountain seen of none Where yet abode her friend alone, Watching the sleeper, who just now Turned in his sleep and muttered low. Therewith she smiled to see the wine Embraced by her fingers fine; And her sweet face grow bright again With sudden pleasure after pain. And even as she spoke they came And all the green place was aflame With golden raiment of the lords; While Cecily, noting not their words, Rose up to go; and for her part By this had fate so steeled her heart, Scarce otherwise she seemed, than when She passed before the eyes of men At Tourney or high festival.

But when they now had reached the hall, And up its very steps they went, Her head a little down she bent; Nor raised it till the dais was gained For fear that love some monster feigned To be a god, and she should be Smit by her own bolt wretchedly. But midst these thoughts their young eyes met, And every word did he forget Wherewith men name unhappiness, As read again those words did bless With double blessings his glad ears, And if she trembled with her fears, And if with doubt, and love, and shame, The rosy colour went and came In her sweet cheeks and smooth bright brow, Little did folk think of it now, But as of maiden modesty, Shamefaced to see the bridegroom nigh.

And now when Rafe the Seneschal Had read the message down the Hall, And turned to her, quite calm again, Her face had grown, and with no pain She raised her serious eyes to his Grown soft and pensive with his bliss, And said,. But yet they set his heart aglow, And he in turn said eagerly: But while mid mirth and minstrelsy The ancient Castle of the Rose Such pageant to the autumn shows The King sits ill at ease at home, For in these days the news is come That he who in his line should wed, Lies in his own town stark and dead, Slain in a tumult in the street.

And bid her at the least to wear Dull mourning guise for gold and white. Withal, ere yet he drew anigh, He heard their watch-horn sound from high Nor wondered, for their wont was so, And well his banner they might know Amidst the stubble lands afar: They do but send forth minstrelsy Because my daughter thinks to see The man who lieth on his bier. But drawn still nigher to the gate They turned a sharp bend of the road, And saw the pageant that abode The solemn coming of the King.

Behind them went the chiefest lords, And two old knights with sheathed swords The banners of the kingdom bore. What play is this ye play to me? But now — but now, my days wax dim,. And all this fairness have I tost Unto the winds, and all have lost For nought, for nought! It is your responsibility to check the applicable copyright laws in your country before downloading this work. What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed accomplished.

It is just that this youngster should die away: This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve a punishment: This is not written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look, and who do look witha zealous eye, to the honour of English literature. The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful mythology of Greece and dulled its brightness: This web edition published by eBooks Adelaide.

Last updated Wednesday, December 17, at A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read: The very music of the name has gone Into my being, and each pleasant scene Is growing fresh before me as the green Of our own vallies: And now at once, adventuresome, I send My herald thought into a wilderness: There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress My uncertain path with green, that I may speed Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

Paths there were many, Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly To a wide lawn, whence one could only see Stems thronging all around between the swell Of turf and slanting branches: Full in the middle of this pleasantness There stood a marble altar, with a tress Of flowers budded newly; and the dew Had taken fairy phantasies to strew Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve, And so the dawned light in pomp receive.

From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white, Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light; And in his left he held a basket full Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull: Then came another crowd Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud Their share of the ditty. Who stood therein did seem of great renown Among the throng. But there were some who feelingly could scan A lurking trouble in his nether lip, And see that oftentimes the reins would slip Through his forgotten hands: Endymion too, without a forest peer, Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face, Among his brothers of the mountain chace.

In midst of all, the venerable priest Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least, And, after lifting up his aged hands, Thus spake he: Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks: Yea, every one attend! Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains Speckled with countless fleeces? No howling sad Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had Great bounty from Endymion our lord. The earth is glad: By all the trembling mazes that she ran, Hear us, great Pan!

Winder of the horn, When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn Anger our huntsmen: Breather round our farms, To keep off mildews, and all weather harms: Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, That come a swooning over hollow grounds, And wither drearily on barren moors: Dread opener of the mysterious doors Leading to universal knowledge — see, Great son of Dryope, The many that are come to pay their vows With leaves about their brows!

Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between; An unknown — but no more: Even while they brought the burden to a close, A shout from the whole multitude arose, That lingered in the air like dying rolls Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine. Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine, Young companies nimbly began dancing To the swift treble pipe, and humming string. Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly To tunes forgotten — out of memory: Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent On either side; pitying the sad death Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath Of Zephyr slew him, — Zephyr penitent, Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament, Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain.

Perhaps, the trembling knee And frantic gape of lonely Niobe, Poor, lonely Niobe! Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind, And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind; And, ever after, through those regions be His messenger, his little Mercury. But in the self-same fixed trance he kept, Like one who on the earth had never stept. Aye, even as dead still as a marble man, Frozen in that old tale Arabian. Who whispers him so pantingly and close? Peona, his sweet sister: Her eloquence did breathe away the curse: Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest: And as a willow keeps A patient watch over the stream that creeps Windingly by it, so the quiet maid Held her in peace: Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain, He said: Can I want Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears?

Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears That, any longer, I will pass my days Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise My voice upon the mountain-heights; once more Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar: Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll Around the breathed boar: So be thou cheered, sweet, And, if thy lute is here, softly intreat My soul to keep in its resolved course. Hereat Peona, in their silver source, Shut her pure sorrow drops with glad exclaim, And took a lute, from which there pulsing came A lively prelude, fashioning the way In which her voice should wander.

But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon Her self-possession — swung the lute aside, And earnestly said: Caught A Paphian dove upon a message sent? Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent Sacred to Dian? Haply, thou hast seen Her naked limbs among the alders green; And that, alas!

No, I can trace Something more high perplexing in thy face! Tell me thine ailment: What indeed more strange?

Or more complete to overwhelm surmise? So all have set my heavier grief above These things which happen. Rightly have they done: And in that nook, the very pride of June, Had I been used to pass my weary eves; The rather for the sun unwilling leaves So dear a picture of his sovereign power, And I could witness his most kingly hour, When he doth tighten up the golden reins, And paces leisurely down amber plains His snorting four. At which I wondered greatly, knowing well That but one night had wrought this flowery spell; And, sitting down close by, began to muse What it might mean.

Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus, In passing here, his owlet pinions shook; Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth, Had dipt his rod in it: Thus on I thought, Until my head was dizzy and distraught. And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell The enchantment that afterwards befel?

Yet it was but a dream: So kept me stedfast in that airy trance, Spreading imaginary pinions wide. When, presently, the stars began to glide, And faint away, before my eager view: Whence that completed form of all completeness? Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness?

Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O where Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair? Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun; Not — thy soft hand, fair sister! Unto what awful power shall I call? To what high fane? There was store Of newest joys upon that alp. Why not see, Far off, the shadows of his pinions dark, And stare them from me?

But no, like a spark That needs must die, although its little beam Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream Fell into nothing — into stupid sleep. And so it was, until a gentle creep, A careful moving caught my waking ears, And up I started: Therefore I eager followed, and did curse The disappointment. Now, thank gentle heaven!

These things, with all their comfortings, are given To my down-sunken hours, and with thee, Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea Of weary life. Thus ended he, and both Sat silent: She weeps And wonders; struggles to devise some blame; To put on such a look as would say, Shame On this poor weakness! At length, to break the pause, She said with trembling chance: Yet it is strange, and sad, alas!

How a ring-dove Let fall a sprig of yew tree in his path; And how he died: Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick? Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick For nothing but a dream? Behold The clear religion of heaven! Feel we these things? But there are Richer entanglements, enthralments far More self-destroying, leading, by degrees, To the chief intensity: All its more ponderous and bulky worth Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth A steady splendour; but at the tip-top, There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop Of light, and that is love: And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb, Than speak against this ardent listlessness: What I know not: Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, Which we should see but for these darkening boughs, Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught, And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide Past them, but he must brush on every side.

Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet Edges them round, and they have golden pits: My heart did leap Through the cool depth. Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss Alone preserved me from the drear abyss Of death, for the fair form had gone again. How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure Of weary days, made deeper exquisite, By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night! And a whole age of lingering moments crept Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept Away at once the deadly yellow spleen.

Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen; Once more been tortured with renewed life. Whither are they fled? No more will I count over, link by link, My chain of grief: Have not I caught, Already, a more healthy countenance?

By this the sun is setting; we may chance Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car. O sovereign power of love! All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, And shadowy, through the mist of passed years: For others, good or bad, hatred and tears Have become indolent; but touching thine, One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine, One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days. Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet.

Swart planet in the universe of deeds! Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds Along the pebbled shore of memory! What care, though striding Alexander past The Indus with his Macedonian numbers? Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers The glutted Cyclops, what care? Brain-sick shepherd prince, What promise hast thou faithful guarded since The day of sacrifice? Or, have new sorrows Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows? For many days, Has he been wandering in uncertain ways: Now he is sitting by a shady spring, And elbow-deep with feverous fingering Stems the upbursting cold: One track unseams A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew, He sinks adown a solitary glen, Where there was never sound of mortal men, Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences Melting to silence, when upon the breeze Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, To cheer itself to Delphi.

But, at that very touch, to disappear So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered, Endymion sought around, and shook each bed Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung Himself along the grass. To him her dripping hand she softly kist, And anxiously began to plait and twist Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above: But, a poor Naiad, I guess not.

I have a ditty for my hollow cell. But this is human life: Where soil is men grow, Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me, There is no depth to strike in: O meekest dove Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair! O be propitious, nor severely deem My madness impious; for, by all the stars That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars That kept my spirit in are burst — that I Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky!

How beautiful thou art! The world how deep! How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins, How lithe!

When this thy chariot attains Its airy goal, haply some bower veils Those twilight eyes? He heard but the last words, nor could contend One moment in reflection: Dark, nor light, The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly, But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy; A dusky empire and its diadems; One faint eternal eventide of gems. Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold, Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told, With all its lines abrupt and angular: Chilly and numb His bosom grew, when first he, far away Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray Old darkness from his throne: The mighty ones who have made eternal day For Greece and England.

And must he patient stay, Tracing fantastic figures with his spear? O woodland Queen, What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos? Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos Of thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark tree Glimmers thy crescent? Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white?

O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice! Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice? O think how this dry palate would rejoice! If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, O think how I should love a bed of flowers! Deliver me from this rapacious deep! Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense, Upon his fairy journey on he hastes; So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes One moment with his hand among the sweets: Onward he goes — he stops — his bosom beats As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm Of which the throbs were born. Half-happy, by comparison of bliss, Is miserable.

Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there, Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair. For on a silken couch of rosy pride, In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth, Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach: Hard by, Stood serene Cupids watching silently. Hence Was I in no wise startled. So recline Upon these living flowers.

Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know Of all these things around us. The which she fills with visions, and doth dress In all this quiet luxury; and hath set Us young immortals, without any let, To watch his slumber through. Once more sweet life begin! But all were soon alive: Ah, miserable strife, But for her comforting! Who, who can write Of these first minutes? The unchariest muse To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse. A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who Look full upon it feel anon the blue Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls.

Endymion feels it, and no more controls The burning prayer within him; so, bent low, He had begun a plaining of his woe. But Venus, bending forward, said: Ah, smile not so, my son: For upon A dreary morning once I fled away Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray For this my love: Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind; Those same full fringed lids a constant blind Over his sullen eyes: There is no trace Of this in heaven: So still obey the guiding hand that fends Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends.

Here must we leave thee.

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But he revives at once: Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below, Came mother Cybele! Four maned lions hale The sluggish wheels; solemn their toothed maws, Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away In another gloomy arch.

Wherefore delay, Young traveller, in such a mournful place? Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace The diamond path? And does it indeed end Abrupt in middle air?

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